what no one knows
by viennacantabile
Summary: he still dreams of her, sometimes, and he wakes clutching his throat, gasping for air. because when he is with her, his chest tightens and his mind frosts and he cannot breathe. Ch. 1 Peter/Susan, Ch. 2 Edmund/Jadis. Proceed with caution, please.
1. one : for the sun and the moon

Note: This series is all the couldn't-have-beens that never happened in Narnia. If you disapprove of fictional incest, I would avoid this chapter.

Disclaimer: I really doubt C.S. Lewis expected fanfiction like this. I'm sorry, C.S. Lewis, and I promise I'm not some sick incest-loving freak in real life. Rest in peace.

--viennacantabile

* * *

what no one knows

one : for the moon and the sun

* * *

_"Sun and Moon"_

_A strong man, a fair woman,  
Bound fast in love,  
Parted by ordered heaven,  
Punishment prove.+_

_He suffers gnawing fires:  
She in her frost  
Beams in his sight, but dies  
When he seems lost._

_Not till the poles are joined  
Shall the retreat  
Of fierce brother from lost sister  
End, and they meet._

_--Jay Macpherson_

* * *

She is the grace of the night.

He is the strength of the day.

And this is what no one knows.

She is their Queen, born of night and a strange world beyond the Lantern Waste. In the years since she was brought by the Lion and set to rule the Southern regions of Narnia, she has grown into a gentle, virtuous Lady.

And she is so very beautiful. Her pale skin and blue eyes have enchanted the lands surrounding their country. Her radiance is the silver light that cools the anger of the rash, the healing balm that soothes her people's hurts, the muted, shimmering glow that brushes her brothers and sister.

The Just King advises her. The Valiant Queen embraces her, faults and all. But He—_He_ only loves her, with every bone in His body. And no one knows that behind the veil of her raven hair she is drowning in the fire of His eyes.

He is the High King, Knight of the Lion and that strange wilderness that some whisper the Four ascended from. It was he who led the army against the Witch and he who tracked and destroyed the dying remnants of her evil followers.

He is truly golden—the champion of his loved ones, the strength of his country, the king of his people. In each year has he grown in power and strength and always love—endless love. And so he governs, and depends on his brother and sisters—the Valiant for courage and hope, the Just for counsel and wisdom. But She is the only one he craves beauty from. It lingers in the fall of her hair, the curve of her body, the sigh of her voice. And no one knows how he longs to press his lips to hers, to quench the raging thirst inside of him.

When they are with each other, he is not the High King, the Magnificent, or even the wide-eyed boy from beyond the Western Wood. He is simply the Knight and he is Hers alone. And when she trails soft kisses down his jaw-line, hers is not the face which launched the Calormene fleet, nor is she the demure, regal Queen. She is only the Lady—His Lady of the Night. And so it happens that they become each other's light. He is her Sun. She is his Moon. They are halves of a single soul.

But no one must know, because the sun and the moon may never shine as one, may never rise together. They may glimpse each other in the distance, in the rise and fall at the edges of consciousness, but it is only in the early, waking, gray hours of between-time—when space and time are imprecise and unwritten laws are fuzzy and drowsy with sleep—that they meet. And even then, it is a tentative, halting romance, conducted in the shadow of looming walls and towers, atop the cool stone parapets overlooking the Sea. The Lady's hair pools in ebony rivulets around them, hiding their tangle of legs and arms and lips, shielding them from the onslaught of the day. The Knight's fierce eyes light their shelter, caressing and protecting her at this time as he cannot at any other. And they soak in the weak, dazed half-light that discerns not what it sees—because this is something that no one knows.

The morning, with all its harsh brightness, will come all too soon. And they will rise, each to face the day with their own private selves hidden deep inside of them. She will be the Queen. And he will be the King. When she wakes at night and tears slip down her matchless face, he will know. When he dreams at dawn and agony haunts his steps, she will know. And they will wait for the end of the World when the Knight will reach for the Lady and they will be consumed in each other's embrace and so make their end together. Whether it leads to the Lion's country, or the fiery stench of Tash, they do not know. But wherever they go, whatever happens—they will be together.

And that is all they have ever wanted.

-

.end.

* * *

it is what it is. have a cookie.

--viennacantabile


	2. two : dusk

Note: Apologies for taking so long. With everything. I promise, I'm still working on all of my unfinished stories, and am very close to finishing the next two chapters of How It Happened. In the meantime, I hope this will do.

Again—this series is all the couldn't-have-beens that never happened in Narnia.

* * *

what no one knows

two : dusk

-

"And what news from the North?" asks the High King of the centaur captain, Cloudgale. He pauses, brow furrowing as he strips off the worn leather gauntlets of his fencing array. "We had not thought to look for you til the morrow."

"Nay," adds the lovely black-haired queen at his side, called from her embroidery, "nor even til the week's close."

"But it's been so long," chides their golden sister as she settles into her seat, bringing a whiff of salty ocean air with her. She smiles at Cloudgale. "It's a delightful surprise."

"Is it?" asks the dark-haired king on the far end of the table, mind still fogged from his studies of the fantastic offerings of the library. He gives the centaur a penetrating gaze. "I wonder. You requested secrecy. There must be a reason."

"Unfortunately, there is." Cloudgale paces restlessly around the war room. "Your Majesties, we've received reports that the last remnants of the White Witch's army have been spotted in the northern reaches of Narnia." He stops, eyes meeting Peter's soberly. "They seem to have a new ally."

The High King sighs wearily. "It never ends. And the situation?"

"With his—or her—aid, the remnants have laid waste to the settlements in the North. They have joined with several of the renegade Giants. And—" He hesitates.

The High King nods. "Go on."

The centaur makes a slight bow at the waist. "Forgive me, Your Majesties. What I have heard cannot be true, but the rumors persist, the signs are unmistakable, the stars are clouded. I fear—" He stops again.

"You fear…?" demands Edmund, leaning forward, forearm muscles cording as he clutches the arms of his chair. Lucy half-glances at him, startled by the ragged, animal edge to her brother's voice, usually so polished and controlled. He is not distracted now.

"We hold no animosity toward the bearer of ill tidings, however little we may welcome his message," the High King says with a quelling look at his brother, his low voice as elegant and subtle in its nuances as velvet. "You have leave to speak without fear."

The centaur's face is somber. "I fear the White Witch has returned."

Upon these words, a curious chill fills the room, coiling between the chairs and around the four monarchs to hold them absolutely still.

"Impossible," Susan says, her voice strangely childlike.

Lucy focuses on her brother, unsettled. Edmund sits frozen, dark eyes glittering in his pale face. He does not speak.

The High King rises, face set. "If what you say is true, this is dire news, indeed."

"Yes," says the centaur gravely, "and that is why we must act as swiftly as possible. I hoped you would lead us in a strike against the heart of their encampment in the Wilds."

The High King nods. "Thank you, Captain. We will leave at once. See to the arrangements."

The centaur bows, and canters out of the chamber, taking the ominous chill with him. Susan moves at last, shuddering in a reflex of cold fear, her long black hair sweeping the floor. "I had hoped we had seen the last of that rabble last autumn." She turns to her brother, liquid blue eyes heavy. "I suppose you must go, then?"

"Yes," he replies, taking her hands in his, the same blue eyes burning earnestly. "But you need not worry, sister. I'll soon return. And you will have Edmund in my stead."

Edmund does not hear. His dark eyes are clouded with fog and the dust of memory.

White. Cold. Ice. Sledge. Dwarf. Queen.

Jadis.

"Edmund."

His eyes refocus.

The queen called Valiant reaches over and touches his sleeve, bright eyes worried. "Brother. Are you well?"

"Quite well," he murmurs, yet he knows that he is not, has not been well for seven years of too-bright sunshine and endless spring. He avoids his sister's gaze, turning to Peter. "What will you tell the court?"

"The truth," Peter replies, rubbing his temples. "Though I'll not mention the Witch. I'd rather not, until we can investigate the rumors."

"And what do you think you'll find?" he asks, trying to keep his voice even.

The king sighs. "I haven't the slightest idea."

Susan shoots Edmund a reproachful glance, and turns back to Peter. "Come," she says, voice gentle, "there's much to be done before you depart."

They leave, and he is alone with Lucy.

"Ed," she says, her small hand covering his own. "It's not her. It can't be."

"I know," he says roughly, intensely aware of her touch. "But either way, it doesn't matter."

He cannot look at her.

-

Time passes in drops and dollops of color and motion. The High King departs in a great blaze of glory at midday; Queen Susan takes his place at the head of the banquet table, resplendent in sapphire; Queen Lucy leads the evening dance with a whirl and flash of scarlet skirts. Before Edmund has time to breathe, he is lying in his bed, distantly wondering when he had become so cold and thinking, as always, about the chasm that separates his brother and sisters from himself. They walk in the day, in the light, where nothing is hidden and the sun burns away the phantoms of the night.

Not so the Just King. This king's face is pale and white, as if all the life has been drawn out of him. As it was, seven years ago.

What he remembers is snow falling at twilight, and bells sounding like the crunch and crackle of splintered shards of ice. He remembers white furs wrapped around his body in a sensuous embrace of words and lies and enchantment. But what he remembers most are red, red, lips the color of blood.

He has never been the same.

Time and time again, Edmund's mind revisits the fact that though he has met renowned beauties from across the world, he has not once met her equal. Only the Gentle Queen invites comparison—and then, simply because her long black hair and perfect face recall another queen. The thought is abhorrent to him—but there is something beautiful in her icy, mind-numbing coldness.

He still dreams of her, sometimes, and he wakes clutching his throat, gasping for air. Because when he is with her, his chest tightens and his mind frosts and he cannot breathe. And in his dreams, he is older—so much older, and her cold, cold hands make him beg to make her the queen she never was. They ghost and caress and seduce his body until he is so full of an icy ecstacy that he has forgotten how to breathe.

It is not love.

It is obsession.

"Come back," he whispers to his ceiling, breath fogging. He traces shapes in the air with his fingertips and wonders how long it will take her to ride from the North to his bedside in Cair Paravel. Too long.

"Ed," he hears, "don't." He turns his head. Lucy shelters a flickering candle with her hand, her nightdress billowing around her legs. He can't see her face.

He shields his eyes. It's too bright. It has no place here, in the darkness of the night.

His sister sets the candle on his bedside table, and lies beside him, settling her head and hand on his bare chest. Automatically, he reaches up and strokes her golden hair. Her touch is so warm.

"Please," Lucy says quietly into his skin.

He knows what she is asking. But he can't.

-

Weeks later, the centaur returns.

"Good news, Your Majesties," he pants. "It was one of her breed—but not _her_. Acharis, they called her. The High King slew her three days ago, in battle."

Edmund doesn't hear Susan's relieved answer, or see Lucy's quick, darting look.

It isn't Her.

But he wishes it were.

-

And sometimes, secretly, Edmund regrets one single action.

Not the Turkish Delight. Not the spires of the silver castle between the two hills. And not the traitorous moment when words came spilling out of his mouth like careless fragments of ice.

What Edmund regrets is that frozen instant of time when he lunged—reached—brought down his sword—and snapped the Witch's golden wand in two.

And that—that buried, hidden regret—is what no one knows.

-

.end.

* * *

more to come soon, hopefully.

--viennacantabile


End file.
